


I'm Not Trying To Be A Hero

by sweetNsimple



Series: "Morally and Legally Unacceptable Histories" ~ Nanao-chan [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Brooklyn Bruiser, Bruce Is a Good Bro, Bruce is a Pathologist, Criminal Justice, Established Relationship, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Character Rape, Obadiah Stane is a Pedophile, Pedophile!Stane Seems To Be Popular With Me, Serial Killer, Serial Killer Boyfriend, Serial Killer!Steve, Steve Is An Art Teacher, Steve is an artist, Tony Has Issues, Tony is in Computer Forensics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-15 00:59:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/pseuds/sweetNsimple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And I wonder, would I give my life/ Could I make that sacrifice/ If it came down to it/ Could I take the bullet, I would/ Yes, I would, for you" ~ Keith Urban's "For You"</p><p>“So, what?  Brooklyn Bruiser – modern day superhero and vigilante?”  Stark was highly skeptical.  And maybe, in the bottom of his heart, a bit jealous.  There had been no Brooklyn Bruiser in his childhood.</p><p>But, whatever.  It was fine now.  Stark had rolled himself out of that particular bed and there wasn't enough money in the world to force him back into it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Trying To Be A Hero

“What do you got for me, Brucie Baby?” Tony Stark called out before he even stepped into the examination room, a cup of coffee in each hand. He was missing his tie and three buttons down on his pinstripe vest, sleeves of his dove gray dress shirt rolled up underneath. The pressed cut of his slacks had turned to wrinkles and a mysterious dark stain had spread across his one thigh. Even his facial hair, usually stylish and neat, had had two days to catch up to his groomed van dyke. His hair had certainly met his restless hands more than once, and the bags beneath his eyes were deep and dark enough to look like someone had finally given into their rage around the infuriating man and given him a good hit twice.

 

Despite his messy appearance, his smile was still bright and shiny as he teased the pathologist by waving one of the coffees beneath his nose.

 

Bruce Banner had a purposefully rumpled aura about him, as if he had just rolled out of bed and into his lab coat in one motion. Thick, peppered curls forever in disarray and clothes never ironed, he still managed to look more well rested and clean shaven than his friend. He still reached for the coffee, however, because, at this point in his career, it probably flowed thicker through his veins than blood did.

 

“Brooklyn Bruiser,” he told Stark, and watched the smile transform immediately into a scowl.

 

“So... Nothing for me to do.”

 

Bruce offered an apologetic smile. “Nothing for you to do.”

 

“But I'm _bored_.”

 

“Really? I didn't know you could get bored at the point of exhaustion you're at. It has to be fun, trying to keep your eyes open right now.”

 

“Listen, Mr. SassSexPants...” Stark paused at his distant expression. “Something about this is bothering you.”

 

“Well...”

 

“Listen, I know I'm not in the unit... Even though I'm, like, the best in my field...”

 

“So humble, Tony.”

 

“You can talk to me about it. I mean, is it classified?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“There you go, it's not classified as of this moment, the same moment in which I am standing in front of you, talking to you, invading your holy sanctuary, and disrupting the general peace. It would actually just be better for you if you told me about what was bothering you now instead of having me badger you – like we both know I will – so just give in now, Brucie. Come to the nosy side. Tell me what's up.”

 

Banner was still decently sure that this was no business of a Tony's. There was never even a component to the murder that required his attention, no reason or even point to drag him into the case, but...

 

It did bother him, and Tony was right there, available. While most would say it was a horrible idea to tell Tony anything, that his mouth, going a hundred miles per hour, would indubitably spill all secrets at one point or another, Banner could say in full trust that he knew better. Stark hadn't come this far, learned as much as he had, gone through all that he had, to give everything away because of his motormouth.

 

He set the coffee down, untouched, and gestured for Stark to follow him over to the body. Tony did so with badly harnessed glee.

 

Bruce flipped back the white sheet covering the newest victim and took a step back to watch Tony's expressions change. There was curiosity, confusion, disappointment, and then a brick wall as he looked at him. “Yeah, it looks just like the last, what? Nine? Brooklyn Bruiser – leaving bruises on Brooklyners since 2014.”

 

Banner shook his head. “You're not seeing it, Tony. His M.O. is changing.” He gestured, first, to the apparent –  the victim and  the bruises on  his neck. “ Johann Schmidt, m ale, early thirties, muscular, 6' 1 ” exactly,  195 pounds . Brooklyn came at him from the front, bruising on the victim's hands suggest that he fought  back , and then Brooklyn did was Brooklyn does best. Manual strangulation.”

 

“Yes, we're all familiar with how Brooklyn Bruiser likes to know he's stronger than the big boys.”

 

“Well, it's no easy task to strangle anyone. Strangulation as cause of death is more common in women or the highly inebriated, people who are far weaker than their assailant and less likely to shake them off or fight their way free. If Brooklyn really is looking for a power rush, he's getting it.”

 

“Brucie, sweetheart, baby bear, puppy paws – what _don't_ I know?”

 

He picked up one of the victim's hands in both of his. “Shattered carpus, latex synthetics found in the mouth suggest a ball gag, broken kneecaps, and... anal fissures and hemorrhaging.”

 

Banner let that all sink in for a moment. Stark's eyebrows came down  and together. “He was raped?”

 

“By a 16 1/2” colossus dildo,” he told Stark.

 

“Amazing what you can find out through science, am I right?”

 

“Actually, Brooklyn was nice enough to leave it in for us. The last I heard, it apparently came from one of the Babelands in Brooklyn.”

 

Stark rolled his eyes. “Of course it did.”

 

“So, what? He's changing? Wasn't happy with just strangling them to death to prove he was the biggest, baddest bitch in town, now he's going to rape them while they're alive and helpless?”

 

It was a pretty clear message, shattering their wrists  and kneecaps, shutting them up with a gag while he raped them.  _There's nothing you can do to stop me. I'm stronger than you. You're weaker than me._

 

Could barely crawl away, if at all, Tony guessed.

 

But Banner hummed uncertainly and frowned.

 

“Oh, God, there's more,” Tony groaned. He reached for Banner's coffee and downed it after his own.

 

“It has come to light that the Schmidt has a history as a pedophile, all boys between ages 7 and 10.”

 

Stark took a not-at-all subtle step away from the metal slab. Whatever sympathy he might have felt for the body that had once been a man with an identity evaporated fairly quickly. He tried to tell himself that that still didn't make this right, and he somewhat succeeded. This man hadn't deserved to die so quickly.

 

The rest... Well, Stark wasn't going to tell anyone what he was feeling about that anytime soon. His retirement wasn't up yet.

 

“Brooklyn's last nine victims also turned up with a history of violence towards others,” Banner continued. “Wife beaters, children abusers, sex offenders. Yes, he strangled them to death, and it was a very powerful show of how much stronger he was than them – but was it for his benefit, or for the benefit of _their_ victims? To show the people that _they_ had hurt that they could be defeated and destroyed?”

 

“So, what? Brooklyn Bruiser – modern day superhero and vigilante?” Stark was highly skeptical. And maybe, in the bottom of his heart, a bit jealous. There had been no Brooklyn Bruiser in his childhood.

 

But, whatever. It was fine now. Stark had rolled himself out of that particular bed and there wasn't enough money in the world to force him back into it.

 

Bruce shrugged and took his glasses to the hem of his shirt, cleaning them off. “Probably.”

 

“This is his first sex crime, though, and his third sex offender,” Tony pointed out. “He didn't rape the others.”

 

“He only started out three months ago. His M.O. hasn't really settled into habit yet. It's possible that, for the moment, he just goes with an idea and incorporates it. He's proven to be highly intelligent, even methodical and strategic. He won't settle till he's sure he's getting the right message across.”

 

“You think he'll keep it up, then? Raping the rapists.”

 

“And he will create likewise punishments for other crimes,” Banner added with a nod. “Ones that he sees fit and just.”

 

“What an American hero.”

 

Bruce gave him a tired look. “Why aren't you at home, Tony? Are you and Steve fighting?”

 

“What? We? Us? _Fighting_? We are happy, you know, as happy as we could be without drugs, and, may I remind you, I am still waiting for my share of your weed – ”

 

“Tony.”

 

Stark's shoulders dropped. He contemplated the stained bottom of the Styrofoam cups in his hand, one inside the other. “I'm... not good at the relationship thing, Bruce.”

 

“I know. He knows. Agents Blake, Barton, and Romanova know. We all know, Tony. But you were doing good. You looked really happy, and so did he.”

 

“We were. We are. I think. No, I know... Maybe. Just, it's just – you know what, I don't think I'm ready to talk about it.”

 

“You will never be ready to talk about it.”

 

“Yeah, you're probably right.”

 

“Tony.” Banner was usually adverse to touch, not comfortable with affection of, well, any kind. Still, he clapped Tony clumsily on the shoulder, because he really was Bruce's best friend, and his happiness mattered to him on a level that most others did not. “He loves you. You know that.”

 

“... I sort of... feel the same way toward him. I just, God, I don't know how to say it. I don't know if I _can_ say it.”

 

“He's patient. And intuitive. I'm pretty sure he already knows.”

 

Tony snorted without any real amusement. “He would.”

 

“Go home, Tony. Talk it out with him. We really don't need you to get to the babbling point again.”

 

“Excuse you, I will have you know that I _always_ babble. Talking is sort of my thing. I'd say I could take on Wilson over in toxicology.”

 

“No one can take on Wilson,” Banner pointed out. “And no one understands what you're babbling about by the time you hit hour 60 of sleep deprivation. I think you were talking to the fern in Coulson's office last time about computer software and pink rabbits.”

 

“You _think_. You don't know.”

 

Banner gave him a hard look. Or, as hard a look as he could give. Banner very rarely gave into real, deep emotion, and that made most of his expressions not as potent as they otherwise would be. Most smiles and frowns and other emotional queues sat awkwardly on his face until he eventually gave into a mutant hybrid of a scowl and self-disappointment.

 

Nonetheless, Stark understood, and rewarded his friend with a scowl of worthy bitchiness. “If he breaks up with me because I finally gave him the chance to, I'm blaming it on you.”

 

“I'll buy the Ben&Jerry's if he does.”

 

~::~

 

Tony Stark lived in a hi-rise apartment in Downtown Brooklyn. It was modern, glossy, and mostly paid for by his trust fund.

 

It was also inhabited by his boyfriend of two years, Steven Grant Rogers. How Tony had ever landed him, he honestly had no clue. Steve was tall, broad, blonde, and gorgeous, inside and out. He volunteered at animal shelters and children's hospitals, for Christ's sake! He gave away more than half of his profits each month to benefits and charities. He was second to J.K. Rowling in losing a billionaire status because of how much he gave back to the community. And his billionaire status hadn't been easy to come into.

 

Between his successful career as an artist and the happier bits where he actually taught art at Brooklyn Elementary School, Steve had told Tony about his years as a child, sickly and struggling for the next meal in his mother's weakening hands, and then as a college student with a major in art teacher education and a minor in military studies, and then as a graduate with barely two nickels to rub together at any time of the month... Right up until Erskine, a renowned art collector, had stumbled upon him “doodling”.

 

Steve's time and skills were not cheap. But he still managed to put hours in a day towards telling Tony how much he loved him, cuddling and nuzzling him, feeding him so much “positive reinforcement” – as he called it – that Tony wanted to just make a blanket out of it and carry it everywhere like a second skin.

 

“ _Hey, Stark, I heard you – ”_

 

“ _Nope, sorry, can't hurt me. Carrying Steve's love and devotion here, move along, unimportant and douchy shitbag.”_

 

Why the Hell did Steve stay with him? Obviously, Tony was a monumental fuck-up. And Steve was... Well, Steve. He helped old ladies across the street and got kittens out of trees. He attended church every other Sunday and didn't even force Tony, an Atheist, to go with him.

 

He was _perfect_. And Tony was a broken, angry mess of suppressed emotion, insomnia, and night terrors, suffering from Heart Valve Disease. He was no joy to sleep the night away with, but Steve stuck around after sex anyway, keeping Tony pressed against his chest like he couldn't imagine Tony anywhere else.

 

Steve was an idiot, to love Tony as completely as he did, so much that even _Tony_ didn't doubt his feelings. And Tony... sort of took advantage of that. Whenever he forgot to warn Steve off. Which had happened less and less in the past two years, to the point where him telling Steve to fuck off, like he had done – what? Two nights ago? - was actually rare.

 

He didn't believe in God, but he almost prayed as he took the elevator to his suite that Steve was there. He shouldn't be working right now, right? Tony tried to remember his schedule, but he had never gotten good at memorizing those sorts of things. He was a man of science and could recite Pi till the end of time. Knowing what time school let off? Not so much. He just sort of... sat around, not aware of the time, till Steve would come up behind him, kiss him right over his pulse, and say, in that low, husky voice, _I'm home_.

 

Please be there, Steve.

 

Don't be gone.

 

He walked into his suite – instant relief.

 

Steve was at the kitchen island, cutting up vegetables while the skillet sizzled behind him. He looked up when Tony came in, trapping him in those gorgeous blue eyes like he had done so many times before.

 

For a moment, they just stood there, sizing each other up, trying to determine how angry the other was and if there would be anymore incoming blows to their pride and heart.

 

Steve was the first one to decide that the coast was clear, and he smiled beatifically at Tony. He put down his knife and came around to him, hands smelling like garlic and onions and horrible green things, as he pulled Tony in close and kissed him soundly on the mouth.

 

“Welcome home, sweetie,” he said, and did not lose a single ounce of masculinity doing so. “I've missed you.”

 

Tony felt the tension slip away and melted right into Steve and his rock hard chest. He closed his eyes tiredly. “I missed you too, babe. It's good to be home.”

 

“It's good to have you home,” Steve said into his hair. He sniffed delicately. “I'd prefer it if you didn't smell like you've been on the underside of a leaking gas tank the entire time you've been gone, but I guess beggars can't be choosers.”

 

“I'm comfortable right where I am, so if that was your not-so-subtle hint to take a shower, you failed incredibly, with incredible failure.”

 

He wanted to say he was sorry for what he had done. Taking Steve's 'I love you' and throwing it back in his face. He wanted to apologize for ever saying that Steve reminded him of Obadiah, because it was completely untrue. But he couldn't force the words out of his mouth, and he didn't want to bring Stane back up, didn't want to reawaken those nightmares that had unsettled him enough to attack his best friend and lover. So he just let his hands slide beneath Steve's white cotton shirt and rest against warm, smooth skin, just breathing him in. Clean and salty, with a faint touch of the smoke and food aromas that characterized city street life.

 

Steve just kissed his head, and didn't even hint at wanting an apology as he carefully walked backwards towards their bedroom and laid Tony down. “Shower when you wake up,” he told him, pressing a string of kisses along his throat, thumb feathering beneath the arch of his jaw. “Then I'll heat you up some dinner.” He took Tony's slack mouth with gentle pressure, drawing out a drowsy sigh of pleasure from him as he pulled back. “I love you, Tony.”

 

Tony met his eyes and tried to say without saying that he loved him back. He thought, maybe in the brightness of Steve's smile, the relief written in it, that he understood.

 

~::~

 

 

Sometimes, Tony still got phone calls from Stane.

 

He would never say anything incriminating, because not even Tony could be sure if he could keep it to himself or if he would sell it to the media before handing it to the police so everyone could know the true, pedophiliac face of Obadiah Stane – the man who had taken Stark Industries from Howard Stark's stiff, cold hands.

 

Sometimes, Tony wasn't the first one to listen to Stane's messages. It hadn't happened since he told Steve he could tell when someone else got to the answering machine before him, but it had made Tony hyper aware of how Stane could destroy what Steve and he had painstakingly built. Tony refused to say that it had actually helped make their relationship stronger as it had goaded Tony into admitting to Steve what had happened to him, between him and his godfather when he had been a child.

 

He had never seen Steve so... not furious. Not furious in the emotional, red-in-the-face, blood-pressure-rising sort of normal way. Cold, he guessed. Like Steve had slowly begun to freeze from the inside out, heart rate dropping and all facial queues smoothing out to be as slick and dangerous as black ice on a sidewalk. Tony had felt chilled just by being near him, and he had thought, for an irrational moment, that Steve was angry – or, well, cold – at him. That this was the dealbreaker. That, where Tony's recovering alcoholism hadn't worked, and his heart medicine hadn't made Steve grimace, and him screaming at fuck o'clock in the morning hadn't made him run, this had finally done the trick.

 

It hadn't, though. Steve had pulled him close, had kissed him sweetly, and then had reminded him with his body, and his voice, and his words, and the look in his eyes – even that early in the relationship at ten months new – that Tony was precious to him, and he would take care of him, that he would _protect_ him.

 

Tony didn't want to accept charity from anyone. Didn't want it, didn't need it.

 

What Steve had offered, though, what he still offered, wasn't charity, and that had been a hard lesson to learn. If anything, Tony was the one giving charity, allowing Steve to be at his side when he saw the answering machine blinking, allowing him to go through his 'freeze' mode, and then take him off to bed – or to the nearest wall, or the couch, or the kitchen island – to remind him just how different his life was now from back then.

 

Sometimes, Tony let himself imagine what it would be like for Obadiah to meet Steve, to run into that frozen exterior and find a person he couldn't charm out of Tony's life and into his wallet. One of Tony's closest friends, James Rhodes, had accidentally fallen into the depths of Obadiah's pay checks back during the difficult times of college. It was easy for Stane's silver tongue to convince anyone that he just wanted to keep an eye on his wayward, childish, too-intelligent-for-his-own-good, wasting-his-life godson who, for some unearthly reason, had gone into Computer Forensics where he would barely survive on his own instead of going into the family business where he could have had just about anything his heart desired.

 

Steve, though... Steve couldn't be fooled, and that sent a thrill down Tony's spine. He couldn't be bought, he couldn't be blackmailed, he couldn't be cornered. Obadiah could try, but he would just meet _ice_ , and Tony would take his lover home with him once Stane realized that this was someone he couldn't browbeat and cajole into submission.

 

He came home, and the answering machine light was blinking.

 

Steve wasn't home – Tony was actually back first for once, and he celebrated it with a doughnut from the fridge – so he didn't answer it quite yet. It was one of their early compromises. Tony didn't check the mail or the messages till Steve was back to stand at his side like the silent, loyal shield he was. In return... Well.

 

He got Steve's approval?

 

It was pretty piss poor, but still worth it. Steve got upset and put on his puppy dog face whenever Tony went ahead without him.

 

So he waited and made coffee. He pulled out his laptop and ignored his email as well, and tinkered in digital schematics till it occurred to him that it was dark in the living room, and the skyline along New York out the windows had lost all of the psychadelic colors of a sunset.

 

“The Hell...” He checked the time.

 

Steve was late.

 

Suddenly, it was very important that he check the phone messages. If it was an emergency, he tried to counter himself, Steve would have called his cell phone.

 

Sadly, it wasn't that easy to convince himself. He tackled the answering machine. There were four new messages. One from Pepper, another longtime friend of his, asking him if he thought he could run away fast enough if he missed a benefit this coming weekend. She signed off with a purring threat to contact Steve if he “forgot” like he was prone to.

 

Clint Barton, one of the agents at work, said they were having a Disney marathon tomorrow night, and his and Steve's presence was mandatory.

 

Phil Coulson, Barton's sergeant, called immediately afterward to tell him that there would be no Disney marathon and that Barton was grounded. In the background, Clint whined, only for Coulson to firmly remind him that if he wanted to act like a child, he would be treated like one.

 

And then...

 

“ _Hello, Tony.”_

 

He let out a heavy sigh and braced himself against that voice and this man that he had trusted, who had let him down so hard that he had shattered on the ground. He should stop it now, wait a little while longer for Steve, then go looking. He should. He really, really should...

 

He let the message play out.

 

“ _I found your beau's private number. If it's alright with you, I was hoping to get in contact with him, discuss some important matters.”_ Important matters, also known as Tony Stark. _“Ooh. Sorry, Tony, it looks like my secretary already scheduled an appointment for him. I guess you don't have a choice after all.”_ Like so many other times in his life where Stane was involved. _“Don't get worried if he doesn't show up at all. Sleep tight, Tony. I hope you think of me.”_

 

He beat down a cold sweat and tried to build his confidence back up.

 

Steve could not be bought.

 

Steve could not be beaten.

 

Steve could not be broken.

 

He repeated his little mantra to himself all the way to the kitchen where he pulled out an empty bottle of scotch and just stared at it, willing it to become full, knowing it wouldn't, and then just trying to remember what it had tasted like and why drunken bliss had been so goddamned good.

 

He stared at the island counter way past midnight, trying to think of something to do, and always circling back to, _wait for Steve_. Because, really? All he had at this point was the hope that Steve would come back.

 

He could hear Stane in his mind, taunting him. _Don't get worried if he doesn't show up at all_. Not tonight, not late, but at all. Like he planned to drive him away for good.

 

He almost let himself outside, but then pushed himself into the bed, into Steve's pillow, and viciously bit into it. He knew that, if he went outside now, he'd end up at a liquor store.

 

Have faith, he tried to tell himself. Then he reminded himself that he was an Atheist. Believe in Steve, he amended, and that sounded slightly better.

 

A little past midnight, almost desperate enough to call Stane back, to call his office and find out where he took Steve, after the hundredth time of trying to get a hold of Steve himself and coming up against his voicemail, he heard a key at the front door, turning the lock.

 

He froze, waiting. It could be Steve.

 

It could be Obadiah.

 

His vision whited out for a moment and he was nine years old again. Obie handed him a chocolate and told him to eat it with a smile on his broad face. Tony did, and his body started feeling weird. He felt loose and giggly, and Obie laid him down in his big, four poster bed with the Egyptian cotton rich beneath his sensitized skin. Everything was hazy and in focus at the same time, and he laughed at seeing Obie naked, at Obie tying him to the bed, at Obie telling him that his penis tasted like chocolate too and Tony should try it –

 

“It's okay, Tony,” a voice said, far away. “Sweetie, Tony, it's okay. Breathe with me.” His hand was positioned over a warm chest, right above a strong, beating heart, over steady, healthy lungs, and he followed their rhythm without even understanding the words the voice said first.

 

Reality slowly set back in, and he was looking up into Steve's face.

 

Steve smiled with heartbreaking sadness. “Hey, there. Welcome home.”

 

He choked back a scream, the flow of _IT WASN'T FAIR_ and _I DON'T WANT IT, OBIE_. He felt an almost hysterical bubble of humor when his inner child wailed, _IT DOESN'T TASTE LIKE CHOCOLATE_.

 

“Good to be home,” he said instead, and chose to ignore how hoarse he sounded, as if he had been screaming. He opened his mouth to add something on, witty and sassy to improve the mood and to draw attention away from his flashback.

 

Steve kissed him tenderly instead, which should actually not be nearly as effective as it was on a man suffering from memories of sexual abuse.

 

“I love you, Tony,” Steve said, and it almost sounded like... But, he wouldn't have come back if it was, right?

 

Right?

 

“Hey, hey, no, whatever happened, no...” He tangled their hands together – felt how cold and sweaty he was compared to Steve's dry warmth and felt a wave of self hatred almost rip him apart.

 

Could he blame Steve if this _was_ goodbye?

 

“Steve, I don't like that voice.”

 

Maybe his expression, his eyes, said something he didn't, because Steve's smoothed out and warmth filled the places cracks had formed. He smiled more naturally now. “I'm sorry, Tony. I love you.” This sounded less like finality, and some of Tony's terror subsided to make way for anger.

 

“Yeah? Well, I'm pissed at you! Did you go see him?”

 

Steve narrowed his eyes in confusion, then glanced at the phone where the answering machine wasn't blinking anymore.

 

He looked less than pleased when he turned his attention on Tony again. There was a moment where he was obviously sorting out his battles in the order he would fight them – because Steve didn't know how to pick his battles, and always fought them all, and then he nodded. “Yes, I went to see him.”

 

“Did you take the money?”

 

“He didn't offer me money.”

 

That made Tony pause. “Well, what the Hell did he think he was going to bribe you with? Wait – did he threaten to take away your money?”

 

Steve shook his head. “No.”

 

“Your art?”

 

“No.”

 

“Your teaching license?”

 

“No.”

 

He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. “Then what the fuck were you two doing?!”

 

Steve pulled him in close and kissed his neck, resting his lips against his pulse. “You'll see, tomorrow.” His voice was very quiet, almost as if he was afraid of something.

 

Tony didn't know Steve to be afraid of, well, anything. Alright, that wasn't true – Steve was terrified of ice skating, but that was because of his fear of falling through the ice. Steve hated to be cold. Hated it with a passion that filled Tony with glee to know that Steve G. Perfect didn't love everything in the world.

 

“Steve, what happened?” he asked, becoming genuinely worried for more than just himself and Steve, and not quite able to explain why.

 

Rogers pulled back and smiled down at him, proud and wistful. “I did what I do best.”

 

And then he kissed Tony. And kissed him again when he tried to argue. And kissed him over and over till he wasn't thinking about his strange behavior, or Obadiah, or even work, and he was just babbling everything that came to mind. Everything was how Steve's big hands felt on him, how hot and tight and wet his mouth was on him, how intense his eyes were, how wide his shoulders were, how Tony loved his strength, how Tony loved his hair, and he demonstrated by pulling it and knotting it around his fingers.

 

Steve was strangely quiet the entire time, worshiping Tony to an extent that hadn't happened since the night he had discovered what Tony had been through as a child.

 

When he kissed him goodnight, both of them sweaty and lax, Tony thought, again, that it felt like goodbye.

 

In the morning, he woke up, and Steve was gone. Tony tried not to think about it.

 

Then he turned on the news.

 

~::~

 

In hindsight, it was all so obvious.

 

He wasn't permitted to be on sight when they retrieved the body of Obadiah Stane, CEO of Stark Industries, with his bruised neck and his pants around his ankles, a dildo shoved up his ass and the word PEDOPHILE carved into his forehead.

 

Bruce let him down to see the body, though, and he got a good look at his eyes bulging out of their sockets, lips blue, and neck indented with a man's murderous hands.

 

Hands that, Tony now realized, brought him pleasure and ecstasy and peace on a daily measure.

 

Or had.

 

Steve had known, the moment they would fine the body, that Tony would figure out Brooklyn Bruiser's true identity. He'd known and, instead of killing Tony and making it look like a business takeover as he was next in line to inherit Stark Industries, he'd ran. He left behind his life, built from the ruins of poverty, and had made the decision to let Tony live to rat him out.

 

He thought about the nights Steve called to say he wasn't coming home till later. There were more nights than victims, but Steve was, as Bruce had unknowingly psychoanalyzed, intelligent, methodical, and strategic. If every night had lined up with every victim, someone, even if it wasn't Tony, would have noticed. It was like a random shooting that claimed three lives, but there had only been one true target.

 

He thought about Steve. How he didn't like bullies. How he listened patiently to Tony blowing steam about some hotshot that got off because they didn't have the evidence to hold him. Thinking back over prior conversations, five of Brooklyn Bruiser's victims had been bitched about by him and never even mentioned in great enough details in the news.

 

Bruce, saying that maybe it wasn't Brooklyn trying to show everyone how strong _he_ was, but how he was stronger than his victim. It was probably both, Tony admitted to himself, mentally going over Steve's childhood stories of always getting beaten down and ignored because of his small size and fragility.

 

“ _Brooklyn Bruiser – modern day superhero and vigilante?”_

 

That summarized Steve pretty well, actually. Perfectly, as a matter of fact. God, he should have had it figured out right then.

 

He put a hand to his neck, remembered the touches of Steve's mouth and fingers always there, his breath hot on the nape of his neck, and wondered if Steve had been obsessed because of his extracurricular activities and had to fight to stop himself from making Tony one of his victims, or if he had been obsessed with the knowledge that he had killed with his hands, and that he wouldn't kill Tony with them. All that strength, wrapped around his throat, and Steve had always, always opted to shower him with love instead of pressing down and stopping his breathing.

 

Steve had overpowered these ten modern day monsters, not like a modern day superhero, but like a modern day antihero. Superheros didn't believe in killing their enemies. They naively though that containing their problems in boxes would be justice enough. But these kind of monsters could beat the justice system. Tony, even working inside of it, knew the true face of criminal justice.

 

The people and the crime didn't matter, but only how the people viewed the crime, and how it looked on paper, and who could benefit from it. A serial rapist could go after thirteen hookers in a row, but it would take the body of a senator's daughter to make any real noise above the general, mandatory self-preservation and false morality.

 

A murderer could be back on the streets before age thirty. Bad became worse behind iron bars, fed and nurtured by a system that wanted to ignore them, and by inmates that wanted to take advantage of them. Worse was recycled back into society to be more cautious and no less vicious, and that was the system.

 

Judge, incarcerate, incorporate, ignore, liberate.

 

Tony hated his jobs more days than not.

 

Steve, though – and it should hurt more to turn his back on his own morals and hard-earned sense of right and wrong – had skipped the bullshit and saved lives by taking one. He'd been brutal in making a message the past two times, adjusting and shaping himself to make the most impact.

 

Future victims, the ever pungent fear of prior victims, was cauterized by the knowledge that _it couldn't happen again_.

 

Not wouldn't, not like if the justice system had gotten a hold of them and they had gotten out early due to good behavior, but couldn't, because there was no coming back from the dead, not like there was with jail.

 

Steve had left, because he would rather Tony sell him out than kill him. He could have gone on, doing the thing he was doing – morally right or wrong as it was – but he hadn't.

 

If it was because he loved Tony too much to do it, or because Tony wasn't Steve-victim material, he didn't know. If he were to believe Steve, though, it was probably the former.

 

There was a lot of paperwork he had to do. The media was begging for an explanation about the word on Stane's forehead. At some point, someone was going to dig up Tony's old medical records.

 

He smiled wanly at Bruce on his way out, heeded the warning from Coulson about how he couldn't get involved in this case with surprisingly little fight, and got into his car without making a statement to the bloodthirsty paparazzi.

 

Steve was his lover and best friend. Steve loved him. Steve had killed a man for him.

 

He had also killed nine other men.

 

Steve was a serial killer. Steve was Brooklyn Bruiser.

 

Steve was...

 

Home?

 

Tony stood in the doorway to his suite, watching the news play on the TV with the volume off while classic jazz played to the warmth and delicious scent of something baking.

 

He stared at Steve at the kitchen island, mouth gaping open.

 

Steve looked up and smiled at him, like nothing was wrong. “Welcome home. I left the phone connected, if you want to call our friends over to get me.”

 

“You're here?” Way to go, Stark, point out the obvious. Very good. “I mean, why are you here? I thought you ran!”

 

Steve shrugged, a decidedly fake show of bravado. “I did. For a few hours. Just didn't feel right, to turn tail and hide. I know the things I did were wrong, Tony.” He put down the bowl of whipped cream he had been beating and met Tony's eyes straight on, no lie to be seen. “I'm not delusional, I'm not doing God's work or obeying some inner voice that tells me to go out there and take a life. I do what I do – what I did – because it felt right to do. It wasn't the right thing to do, but it felt right to do it. Will I stop if you let me go? No. I can tell you that right now. Will I hurt you or our friends if you don't? No. I care for them, and I do love you. I'm not a sociopath, I feel genuine emotion. I'm not a psychopath, I'm not crazy. Do you understand, Tony? If you want me to, I will turn myself in, and I won't get an insanity plea.”

 

Tony swallowed thickly and vaguely realized that he had come closer and closer to Steve till only the kitchen island separated them.

 

“And if I want you to keep doing what you're doing?”

 

Steve blinked at him. His eyebrows furrowed together. “... Do you?”

 

“God, I don't know.” He sucked in a deep breath. “I don't know. But I don't want you to leave, Steve. Damn it, I woke up and saw the news – and then I got the phone call – and I was damn sure I was never going to see or hear from you again.” The words bubbled up, the ones he had had since seeing Steve. “Welcome home.”

 

Steve looked near tears and watery as he smiled and pulled Tony around the island into his chest for a long kiss.

 

“I'm back,” Steve said against his mouth. He went to drop his mouth to Tony's neck, like he always did, and paused.

 

Tony tipped his head back in invitation. Steve's relief and joy was played out in the skin along his jaw and down his throat, nibbling at his Adam’s apple.

 

“Mmmm, what are you making?”

 

“Cake,” Steve muttered distractedly beneath the shell of his ear.

 

“What? Why?”

 

Rogers stood up straight for a moment, just to smile at Tony and say, quite cheerfully, “To celebrate your freedom, sweetie.” He whispered into Tony's ear, “You don't have to be afraid of him anymore.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading Jeff Lindsay's 'Dexter' series and Thomas Harris's 'Hannibal Lecter' series... I obsess over serial killer!Steve now. And Sociopath!Steve. I think the next step is Cannibal!Steve. Or maybe I'll involve the other Avengers. I want to do things. Lots of things that are morally and legally unacceptable. I got up at 3 in the morning to write out the first page, page and a half of this, thinking that I would pick it back up at a more decent hour. At a little past 7 in the morning, I realized that I I had written ten pages and over 6,000 words and there really wasn't anything else I could think to add. I was supposed to do stuff this morning. Instead, I caught up on sleep. Feels good to have accomplished this in one sitting.
> 
> As usual, if there are any warnings or tags I should add, please tell me so that I can better myself. Thank you for your time.


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